


Six

by yxuraffectionatelaurens



Series: Write Your Name Across My Heart [1]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, AmRev, Banter, Childbirth, Death, F/M, Hamilton's kind of an emotion whore, Hidden Relationships, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Wedding Night, probably some Historical Inaccuracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-26 09:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7568878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yxuraffectionatelaurens/pseuds/yxuraffectionatelaurens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles about the life of Alexander Hamilton and the remarkable total of six names marking his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The sun had not even begun to rise yet when he awoke, bright puffs of red hair and freckles and three-year-old giggles. James was tangled in the sheets of their bed when Alexander yanked open the ragged curtains, euphoric over the new revelation that had come with the new day - he felt the tingling around his arm. 

“James!” He practically leapt back into the bed, yanking on the fraying ends of his sleeves, bearing his left arm triumphantly. Of course he did; to Alexander, everything was a game, a prize to be won. He treated the soul mark on his arm as if it was something he had earned himself.

There it was - a name - the black pigment as natural on his skin as the freckles that spattered the rest of his arm. He couldn’t read it, but he figured it must be something nice. Receiving a soulmate’s name, one that would remain inscribed upon one’s skin until their dying days, was a comfort James was unfamiliar with, but knew was of importance to most people.

Alexander’s small frame shook with the giggling, staring at the name as he fidgeted around on the mattress. His energy was unbridled, and James had to restrain him with a hand to keep him from tumbling off the bed. “Can you read it to me?”

James was only seven - he didn’t know how to read, truly. He could see the letters making swirls across Alexander’s skin, and wished he knew what it said. Mama would tell them in the morning when the sun fully rose, would trace the letters on his skin and smile as she told him the name that was printed there.

Mist drifted in the warm bedroom, drafty from the ocean breeze that rustled through the room. He could smell the poverty just out their door, unbefitting such a small, bright boy, mingling with the scent of the ocean lapping at the beaches further down. Nevis was such a beautiful, horrid clash of the two - of the simple, colorfully painted pleasures of life, and the cruel, rugged edges of death that constantly nipped at their heels like stray dogs.

Alexander pulled his nightshirt up to show James the two names already existent on his body, yet again proud of the markings. Their family had already been surprised when a second had appeared on his back a day after Alexander came into the world, joining the one present at birth. Now a third? Surely fate would stop there.

From the many times their mother had read the names to Alexander over and over again, the words were familiar on his tongue. “Elizabeth Schuyler,” James recited as he touched the name scrawled across Alexander’s hip, then moved up to trace the one on his back. “Aaron Burr.”

James’ fingers brushed against the new mark again, “I dunno about this one.” It was something their mother would probably say when she saw the new soulmark upon his skin. He recognized only the second half of the name. _Hamilton_. “Someone with our last name, it seems.” Alexander’s brilliant smile, toothy and knowing, broke his silence.

“Hamilton!”

James mumbled agreement, then tugged Alexander’s nightshirt back down. “Mama can tell you what the markings say when she wakes up, alright, Alex?”

His grin was so wide that James nearly forget the stinging pain that came with having no marks on his own skin.

Later, Alexander would find out that the name there, scribbled around his wrist in a handwriting that seemed a little childish for such a distinguished name as his mother kissed it, that it read _Philip Hamilton_.


	2. Chapter 2

Alexander stared at himself in the mirror, and it was the first in many years he had seen any reflection of himself. He was bare from the waist up, revelling in the cool breeze that cradled Elizabethtown, New Jersey, looking at a hundred different shades of color in his chest and staring at the three names printed clearly on his skin as he’d done a million times before.

He had only gotten into one bar fight the previous evening, but it had been the fault of the patron he’d punched, in his defense. Now, the hits he’d taken were showing up in several discolored bruises all across his skin, and Alexander sighed. 

On his desk sat a letter straight from Princeton college, refusing him admission, and he tried not to stare at it too long. The ink had stained his fingertips as he read it over and over again, wincing through the rejection. He was no doubt intelligent enough to rise to the task, and the fact that they’d turned him away without pause stung a little.

Not to mention, their _prized_ student, one Aaron Burr, had already made himself quite known to Hamilton. In fact, he’d known of the prodigy long before they casually bumped into each other in the street - the name had been etched into his back from the day after he was born. He felt the inscription carefully with his finger, knowing the feeling no different from his unmarked skin, but he traced the letters anyways. He had no idea what type of soulmate Burr was supposed to be to him, but all he knew was that he had disappointed every expectation he held of him.

Of course, he was also aware that it was not one sided. Burr had hardly been able to conceal the name in familiar handwriting, even as he pulled hastily at the sleeve covering it.

He had expected a close friend, a person whose intellect matched his at every turn. What he’d found was someone who was so convoluted and misleading that even Alexander had been at a loss to figure him out. The other names - the Philip curled around his wrist and the Elizabeth on his hip - remained unclaimed, although he had strong suspicions about who Philip would be. He didn’t want to admit how it pained him to understand that he had been three when he it had appeared, which meant he would have to live three years without this… Philip. 

Back as a clerk on Nevis, he had seen the way a fully grown man, known for the hard crack of his whip and the sharp bite of his tongue had crumpled in only a matter of seconds. The name that had appeared on his inner arm belonged to his wife, and that had not upset him - what had thrown him into such deep despair was the fact that it appeared after his thirtieth birthday. 

Thirty years is quite a long time to go on without a soul mate, whether family, friend, or lover. 

Alexander’s eyes drifted downwards in the reflection of his body, looking at the overwhelmingly plain handwriting that spelled out an entirely different bond upon his lower back, in an odd placement. Not quite to the hem of his trousers, or even centered, but between his ribs, just a little to the right…

_Family, friend, lover, or… whatever this is, it would seem._

At least he wasn’t one of the people who got a tattoo late into their life, sometimes too late, sometimes painfully, heartbreakingly early - just enough that you would know exactly what was coming for you. 

Three names - that, he could handle. _Elizabeth Schuyler. Philip Hamilton. Aaron Burr._


	3. Chapter 3

Three names, he could’ve done well with. Three names was an awful lot for one person, but he had always been the type of person who could take something like it in stride. It was something he took pride in, comfortably revealing the name around his wrist and referring to the fact he was the proud bearer of two more upon inquiry. 

Three names was easy. 

He could not have suspected that in the future he’d be wishing for a fourth.

Alexander had walked into camp, confident he was exactly where he was supposed to be. As he was introduced to the other aides and other important figures in the camp, along with a beautiful, wholeheartedly kind Frenchman they called the Marquis de Lafayette, his confidence remained firm. He had already predetermined himself to keep a considerate distance in his heart from all of them, as keeping himself set apart would avoid the painful casualties of war. These were his business partners, and he was comfortable with focusing on work and indulging in pleasures where he wished it.

A few months later, as he walked through the door into the room he was accustomed to being his, the first thing he noticed was a sandy-haired boy leaning over a desk and writing slowly. Alexander pushed a couple bags of belongings out of his path as he stepped into the room with his foot, most likely belonging to his new roommate. The long, billowing sleeves of his tunic were stained just slightly with ink and he was just coherently mumbling to himself as he wrote. It didn’t take long for him to notice how the fast pace of the words he spoke didn’t match with how slowly he was writing, the etch of his quill so subtle that it almost seemed as if he wasn’t writing at all.

“Alexander Hamilton, if you wished to know.” Alexander shifted his weight a little, dropping his coat onto the empty bed. The candle by the other aide’s hand flickered as if it too could sense the tension growing in the empty silence in the room - his hand stopped, the quill left to rest in an inkwell too full for Alexander’s liking. “Since we are to room together, I thought you may be interested in my name, at least. Unless you would like to call me something else.”

He was still paused, and when he turned around, Alexander was quick to notice a firm blush spread through his cheeks. There was nothing composed in the way he fidgeted, standing up and rubbing the back of his neck. “I have only heard your name a hundred times today, though I’m certain you will not recognize mine. Laurens, John Laurens.” He offered a hand, and Alexander shook it slowly. He also noticed that the ties at the neck of his tunic had been done up tightly, which was odd for such a time at night.

“Only in Washington’s endless correspondence to congress,” Alexander jested, relaxing onto the right bed, stretching his legs out after a long day of working. “I pray you have twice the sensibility and half the arrogance of those in mind.” A long moment passed as John turned around, but Alexander caught the semblance of a smile before he did. “Correspondence almost as endless as the praises you were given in the letter of recommendation.”

It was obvious to Alexander that was unexpected, and Laurens looked over at him, still clutching his tunic tight against his chest with one hand. “You read my recommendation letter?” Laurens said, quickly switching into his nightshirt, stealing another glance at the smaller man. 

“That _is_ the role of an aide-de-camp, is it not? To dig through a general’s writings and pass along those worthy of reading? Of which there are few, I assure you.” Alexander relaxed onto the bed, pulling the ribbon from his hair. His attention fell solely on the unfamiliar man in front of him, the well shaped body he had yet to acquaint himself with, the slight hint of a southern drawl in his accent when he spoke. 

Laurens chuckled, glancing over his shoulder. “Certainly, pleasing a man like you is an arduous task.”

The fact that he had retorted in a manner just as flirtatious, if not more so, than Alexander’s first quip spoke volumes to him. 

There was something reserved about John in the following months, despite the fact that they grew to be close friends. As much as Alexander wished to stay estranged from him, he was alluring in his wit and his warm friendship, and it seemed they conveniently had schedules that matched almost exactly. During the long nights, Alexander and John would sit together, soft brushes of skin here and there, exchanging thoughts in a blurred mixture of French and English. They dug through piles of Washington’s work, and neither of them would admit that the reason they were excited to relax each night and do paperwork was not on account of their devotion to the military.

Conversation flowed from gossip around the camp to their personal lives, of which both were hesitant to indulge in. One night, Alexander dared to dig a little deeper than he had before, inquiring about soul marks.

He took note of Laurens’ reactions, the way his face flushed, fingers tapping hesitantly on the desk, teeth sinking gently into his bottom lip. _My God, his lips look soft_.

John had claimed that he didn't have any, anxious to ask Alex about his own. Alex showed him all three, untucking his tunic and pulling it up slightly to reveal the feminine scrawl across his hip and the plain handwriting on his back. 

Although Laurens was just as flirtatious, some part of him was reserved from Alexander - he could sense it when Laurens changed clothing with his back to him, when he avoided certain topics of conversation, when his gaze lingered too long on Alexander’s frame.

It had only been days later, addled by alcohol and the dizzy, fluttering feeling that came with deep, slow kissing, that John’s bed sat completely made and forgotten. A soft heartbeat, fingers tangled in his hair and in his heart, John’s lips pink and swollen from kissing - If Alexander hadn't been quite so drunk, perhaps he would not have wanted to cry so desperately at the beautiful sight beneath him.

John laughed against his hair as he met his lips again, and his presence wrapped Alexander in the most comfortable place he'd ever been.

“I want you,” Alexander mumbled against his ear, a low groan following it. John’s cheeks were almost as ruddy as the rose color of lips, and he nodded as if he'd known it for years. “I want you, dear boy, I _want_ you.”

His fingers were in Alexander’s hair, tugging gently, bearing the soft skin of his neck for more kisses. “If you don’t find more caution or give in to sensibility, we will be caught. I cannot imagine how _loud_ you must be in bed if you are roused to this by my lips alone.”

“I think sensibility is often overrated, and passion too ignored.” They laughed and kissed each other into sleep, tangled in each other.

Yet, guilt wrangled Alexander in the morning as he looked at the man whose arms were slung around his own hips - this man was not his soulmate. He belonged to Alexander even less than Alexander belonged to him - after all, there was a woman’s name written across his angular hip, a name which certainly was of great importance.


	4. Chapter 4

“Ham, they've found him--”

Lafayette’s voice was almost as panicked as Alexander had felt, pacing the camp until the blisters on his heels had begun to ache again and his cheeks were dampened with unshed tears. The battle had been too long for anyone's liking, especially when it had ended so abruptly and with so much dissatisfaction. 

It was improper of a man of his age to weep, to rush with impatience and fear to the side of a friend, even with the secret kisses they shared in the dark. Alexander didn't care, barging through the flaps of the tent and clambering, somehow still gracefully, to where Laurens was painfully still.

Lafayette, hair too loose and wild to match his usual character, had one hand on Alexander’s back as he sat by Laurens’ side. A bullet to the shoulder - painful, but not fatal, as they'd managed to remove it. The nurse was explaining that John had bled quite a bit after he continued to fight with his injury. Lafayette simply laughed with pain edging his voice and relayed with relief to an unconscious Laurens that it figured, and that he'd survive the night.

Finally, unresponsive from the number pain that came with the impromptu operation and shirtless aside from the bandages around his wound, John was no longer shielded from Alexander’s eyes. He understood now why John had always turned his back when he dressed down at night, why he fidgeted around the edges of some of the questions Alexander asked. He wasn't alone in the revelation - Lafayette was glancing warily towards the name of John’s soulmate that he'd been concealing from them since the day they'd met.

Alexander had written that exact signature countless times. He stared down at his own name, as natural as if he'd written it there himself, perfectly curled and calligraphed over John Laurens’ heart.

Later, when the nurse changed his bandage and John awoke to Alexander and Lafayette whispering in hushed tones at his bedside, John was nearly thrown into a state of panic when he realized they knew. He was, however, too tired to physically resist, so he simply turned his head away and bit through it. 

Lafayette left at Washington’s summons, but not after a hasty promise to John that he'd be back and that he was going to give John hell for frightening them all, especially “our frail little lion,” which earned him a smack. 

As soon as he disappeared, the flaps of the tent fluttering in the wind behind him, Alexander leaned forward, shaking John’s good shoulder. “If you feel inclined to pretend to be asleep, I insist you first offer an explanation, and a good one at that.”

John shifted to meet his firm gaze, and barely a breath was exchanged between them before Alexander pushed his lips down onto John’s - even with a pained hiss, John held onto his hair with his good arm and kissed him with a confused blend of relief and need. 

Alexander _needed_ to kiss every inch of his face, every bloodstained pore, every bit of stubble on his chin. 

He could barely find pause to mumble incoherently against his lips before he kissed him again, touching his hair, his face, his lips, his chin - he kissed him again and again and again.

“The nurse could return any minute,” John reminded him with a gentle sigh.

Alexander moved back, taking his hand, stroking the back of his hand with his thumb. Hardly able to control himself, he kept leaning down to kiss him again as they spoke. The conversation flitted in between soft kisses - they were panting just a little, and Alexander felt the closeness of the battle raging within him again.

“You worried. I told you not to do that.”

Alexander was quick to correct him. “I was _not_ worried. I simply feared the horror to befall should Washington’s men try to find me a new roommate.”

A breeze rippled through the tent, and the canvas behind him fluttered against Alexander’s ankles. John winced through the pain in his shoulder when he leaned up to meet his lips again, sighing quietly. “I am certain they would try to put Tallmadge in with you, although I doubt you would complain.”

“He would struggle to keep up with my mouth even more so than he already does,” Alexander mumbled, eyes closed against John’s, listening for the return of the nurse or a friend, if Lafayette was truly coming back. 

“To keep up with your incessant chatter, or the endless kissing?” John asked. His fingers drifted down to Alexander’s jaw, wincing as his shoulder shifted gently. “I suppose that I have some use in that, at least. That, and taking a musket ball in the shoulder, it would seem.” Another wince contorted his smile, and John relaxed to avoid further strain on the wound.

Alexander’s gaze flitted across the blood gently soaking into his bandages, and then further down. His fingers traced his own name, in his own handwriting, across John’s chest. “You should’ve told me, J.”

As soon as he realized what Alexander was referring to, John’s shoulders slumped a little, feeling the softness of his finger looping around the _ilt_ of his surname. “I am not your soulmate. You may be mine, but I…”

“You are still _mine_ , whether or not your name is printed upon my skin.” Alexander offered a smile he hoped would make up for the fact that he couldn't hide that John was all too aware of. 

He didn’t receive a smile in return.

John’s voice was addled with exhaustion, grasping gently at the soft fabric around Alexander’s wrist. “We both know what this name means, Alex. Your son will deserve your full attention. And I am not Elizabeth, whoever she may be.”

Lafayette returned shortly to their tent to see John sleeping peacefully, albeit drooling just a little, and Alexander writing. His quill was moving so rapidly and he was so hyper focused that the fact that his unshed tears from earlier had reappeared and were now rolling down his cheeks didn't seem to register.

(Months later, on the twenty-seventh day of August in 1779, Alexander sat in front of a desk with shaking hands, and for the first time, he had no idea how to write what he needed to say.

In the end, he crumpled a fifteenth draft, frowned at the piss poor attempts he'd made at an explanation, and rubbed his shoulder. The familiar handwriting and the name he'd longed to see printed across his skin for almost three years was throbbing as he kneaded it with his fingers. He didn't want to admit what it meant that it had appeared at age twenty-four, and he really didn't want to admit what it meant that it was dangerously close to his heart.

Instead of telling him, Alexander began a new draft, and wrote of a pretty girl he'd become acquainted with recently, whose name matched the script on his side.)


	5. Chapter 5

He knew it was her the instant she looked at him, those black eyes delicately yet acutely following his shape as he skirted around her, trying to regain his sensibility. Certainly there was a way to introduce himself that wouldn't make him a fool; certainly he had a way with words, and he could tell her prose on the depth of her eyes or the silk of her hair or the way she matched and surpassed the word _lovely_ in every context.

“Elizabeth Schuyler, sir.” She finally broke the silence, and although she was no longer looking him directly in the eye, her mouth twitched with a knowing smile. 

With Aaron Burr (he thought the name as if it were poisonous), it had come as a shock to see a name so long intangible become all too real. With John Laurens, he had been surprised, if not saddened, when he met the soul mark second and the man first. With Eliza Schuyler, the idea that he had been wearing her name across his skin since the moment he was born fleetingly slipped his mind, and he had no need for it to know that this woman before him was to be his wife.

“I know,” He breathed, and her smile held the radiance of the noonday sun.

Alexander had not, in the least, expected to meet his soulmate in Morristown, New Jersey, but he supposed it was a good as place as any. Elizabeth took his arm when he offered, and walked at his side - she felt unshakably _right_ at his side, which he supposed was the reasoning she had been written across his hip. 

He learned several important truths about her that afternoon, ones he wasn't hasty to forget. Of course, Alexander did forget that he had been sent into town to deliver a letter for Washington, who was busy with several important generals and had no need for his aide. He learned she was staying with an aunt, and that she found embroidery less than satisfactory. He learned that she loved children, that her voice was pleasant to listen to, that she was impressed by his status in the military.

Another thing he noticed was the light air in her voice when she laughed as they passed other women in the streets who looked him over twice. If they weren’t looking at him with interest, they were looking at her with disdain, and she gave Alexander a warm, teasing, but polite smile as they walked by.

“Your reputation is ahead of you here, it would seem.” 

Alexander was unable to keep himself from blushing, but regained his composure as he gave a small wave to some of the ladies who were staring impolitely in Eliza’s direction, watching them hurry to appear as if they hadn’t noticed. “I have to do so little to achieve that around here. No doubt you hold some reputation too?”

She was polite, but reserved - he sensed some wild streak in her that had been dulled by lessons on etiquette. “Probably. But jealousy is a pitiful emotion, and frankly, a waste of time. They either hold me in disdain for entertaining a man of such high status and turning a blind eye to the suitors around these parts, or regret that I haven’t aimed higher. Some would only be satisfied if I ended up the suitor of a major general.” That was the rank her father held - Alexander realized, not for the first time, that her family was certainly wealthy. He’d be lying if he didn’t say that it played no part in his subtle infatuation with her.

Eliza met his gaze again, and heaved her shoulders in a gentle shrug. “It is impossible to please everyone,” She finished, avoiding a puddle of mud in the street still stricken by late fall storms and early morning dew. The light, split between leaking through the clouds and flickering dimly in the lanterns lining the streets, made Eliza’s eyes even more enrapturing.

“Is that what I am to you, then? A suitor?” Alexander walked alongside her, and once again, he failed at keeping his emotions properly concealed - he beamed, if only for a second.

Her lips curled together, pressed gently. “I would not be opposed to it in the future.”

If he had had less sensibility, he may have admitted that the emotion overwhelming him was surprisingly similar to a schoolboy’s giddy glee.

Alexander escorted her to her destination, and they stood there in the entrance to another manor, the world a mixture of falling snow and Eliza’s blushing cheeks and Alexander’s sweaty palms, despite the cold. 

He promised to return. She promised to write him. He promised to visit and continue their conversation - concealing a lewd remark about seeing “if truly, you cannot please everyone,” knowing from first impressions she wouldn’t fully appreciate his humor. She promised to speak highly of him to her family. He promised her that he was done promising things, but that he’d be back before she could even begin to miss him.

A short amount of time, several flirtatiously friendly letters, and many conversations with Eliza later, Alexander had learned more things about Eliza that he didn’t have to be told explicitly. She was a natural homemaker, which was good for someone like him, who often set aside organization for productivity. He learned she was unshakably close with her siblings, especially the eldest two - a witty, almost intellectually ravenous woman named Angelica who Alexander believed was remarkable, and a lovable, doting, occasionally nagging younger sister named Margarita, more commonly referred to as Peggy, he would meet later. They were both more forthcoming than their softer sister, and although Peggy was quicker to fall in love with him in the way one would with a brother, both approved of him more or less.

Another thing he learned by observation was that Eliza was a woman of God. She asked him herself one slow afternoon - after a good victory, most of the soldiers had gone out drinking, but Alexander had refrained. He wrote several letters, the longest being addressed to Laurens, and then made his way to the manor where Eliza was boarding with her aunt. 

His hair was dusted with snow, and they sat at the window together, drinking tea from fancy cups and watching children wade through the thick stuff outside. Her cheeks were flushed - she tended to blush a lot, almost as much as John did, Alexander noted - and she smiled when their eyes met. “Are you Christian?” She asked, perhaps being a bit too forward, but the question remained.

“Of course, Betsey.” It was a bit rushed, and Alexander shook away several thoughts of confusion about the subject - war left little time for religion. He hadn’t thought about it much lately, although he knew he was at least not as devout as Eliza. In heart, yes, but in practice, he…

Alexander rarely attended services, mostly because the war took up most of his time, but also because it wasn’t his top priority. And, despite his overall desire to fulfill the words of the books of scripture, in actions he was not always so conserved. He had charmed many women in his time, although Eliza seemed to know that, and his thoughts often ran rampant with fantasies of a similar ilk.

He thought of John fleetingly, and his own cheeks colored as he set his teacup down. They had progressed no further than kisses before, as John always fretted too much, but even kissing a man surely would not feel right in Eliza’s perception of him. And just because they had remained more or less chaste in deed didn’t mean that he hadn’t entertained thoughts before, of John stretched out below him, of his lips parted with a gasp, of--

Eliza nudged him again, shaking him from his fantasies, and he gave another curt nod with a smile. “Yes, I am. Perhaps not as knowledgeable as yourself, the war, it has… taken much out of me. The finer things of life, culture, art, religion, all are in disregard when the fighting spirit of men is stirred.”

She gave a small nod, thinking through his words for a moment. “Maybe I should be more worried about losing you, then?”

“What?”

“If all fine things in life are forfeit in the face of war, then perhaps I should be more concerned about the precious few days I will have to spend left with you.” She tried to conceal a smile, but as Alexander realized what she was saying, he blushed a brilliant shade of red. 

Caught somewhere between laughter and being flustered, which was unusual for someone as coy as him, he took her hand. Eliza smiled, and it was enough.


	6. Chapter 6

She stood against the bedframe, round hips softly illuminated by the gentle curve of her wedding dress, smiling at him. Alexander was painfully quiet, blown away by her plain loveliness, and as he stepped forward, he gathered her in his arms as softly as if she were a flower plucked from a garden.

“I won’t break if you hold me a little tighter, Alexander,” She mumbled with a giggle, her lips brushing against the softness of his cheek. The candle flickered low, illuminating the fancy curtains that came from some ancestor before Eliza, passed through her family to decorate their manor. Alexander had already began undressing, only wearing the thin layer of his undershirt and his breeches - this seemed to draw a blush from her as well.

He pictured his legs wrapped around John’s hips, kissing against his neck as he whispered his name over and over again, sighing into his hair ---

No, this night belonged to Eliza, his wife. He could tell she was nervous, probably because she was new to this, and she kissed against the underside of his neck as he returned to the moment. She worked at the hems of his shirt, edging it gently over his head. The loose sleeves slipped over his arms.

As she did so, he took the liberty to unfasten his breeches and shove them off quickly as well, stepping out to nudge them across the floor a little. Eliza raised an eyebrow at his hastiness, but stepped back slightly observe as he relaxed against the bedpost, wearing only his stockings.

Her teeth pressed into her bottom lip, and she carefully observed him. He knew his form well, the slight angles at his hips and elbows and at the peak of his chin. The freckles scattered across his body were his familiars, the names that decorated his body known so well he could find them blindfolded to the letter. Not only did he know it well, but he was confident in figure, relaxing to let her take it in. 

Almost in an attempt to be artistic, he moved one hand to stroke the curved, smooth edge of the bedpost above him, sighing so slightly that he could notice the color it brought to her cheeks. “Have you ever seen a man up close?”

He relaxed back against their bed, pulling one leg up and rolling his stocking off. He intended to properly seduce her, and stoke the fire in her belly he was sure was already flickering. Eliza was drifting towards him as he moved his hair from his face, purposely being slightly coquettish about it. Her outline was soft through the fabric of her dress, and Alexander shivered when she touched his lips.

His fingers closed around her wrist, pulling her hand just close enough to kiss her fingertips, sucking a little, but gently. “Would you like to touch?” He breathed against her ear when she leaned down to kiss him.

“You tease,” She smiled, and looked him over once again. “Four soulmates? Impressive.” 

Alexander rolled onto his back so she could see _Aaron Burr_ upon his back. She had been distracted by other parts of him, not truly reading the names, but now he watched her curiosity grow. “Five.”

She took time admiring each one.

_Aaron Burr._

“I seem to recall you saying you disliked Aaron Burr. You believed he was…” Eliza was kneeling on their bed next to him, untying the last ribbons of her underdress. As she spoke, she moved to kiss him where he lied on his stomach, her lips brushing against his back. Right on top of where the name was, he knew from the many times he had traced it himself. “Your _bête noire_.”

Alexander rolled over, looking at her with surprise. “I didn’t know you spoke French.”

Eliza laughed, tracing her fingers across his back. A shiver travelled up Alexander’s spine, and he leaned into her touch. He could write sonnets on the color of her lips, on the way her smile unravelled him. Her own voice grew more seductive as she let her underdress slip from her shoulders. She tugged Alexander closer, and he moved towards her, over her, letting his lips move between hers. “I do not,” She mumbled between his kiss. “But you are hardly ever quiet for your distaste. You think it possible to have a soulmate who’s soul is intertwined with yours in hatred?” 

When her eyes met his, they were full of curiosity. Alexander’s lips were pursed for a moment, trying to think through her question - it was hard to think when he could see just how exquisitely soft her body was under him, her hair falling in gentle curls across her shoulder. Her fingers were teasing, and he kept pausing between kisses and words to let his mind catch up. It was not often that his brain was lagging behind his body, but Eliza wasn’t an _often_ sort of person.

“I think it very possible,” He mumbled against her lips. Eliza’s grin was devilish beneath him, and he reflected on the side of her he’d seen suppressed so often. She had no need to suppress that any more. “A soulmate is someone whose soul matches yours. Nowhere is there a clause saying that it is required to be a positive bond. Something ties me to Burr, whatever it is.”

_Gilbert du Motier._

Eliza’s hands ran along the newest mark across his right bicep - well, what was there, anyways, as he wasn’t exactly very toned. Her lips twinged upwards at the corners, and she gave him a teasing look. “The Marquis’ charms have not escaped our Hamilton, it would seem.”

“He is a good friend, and he strengthens me. Some part of my sanity is owed to Gilbert, I would say. One could not hope for a better companion.” He felt it would do poorly to admit the intensity of the intimacy of their relationship, so he said little of it.

Her lips brushed the name, and she moved back slightly. Her eyes fell onto the name he knew she’d been avoiding, the one that danced at the edges of his heart, the one that was still so new to him yet felt as if it had been there for years. He had no idea how to tell her what it meant to him, how to skirt around the subject, so he let her touch her fingers and her lips to it. He let her think what she would about it.

_John Laurens._

“Your best friend, correct?” She gave him a smile that felt oddly placed on her face, and he nodded, hoping she would not think poorly of it. Of course, she could never know the true nature of his relationship with Laurens, because she wouldn’t understand. Even more than that, she would feel…

How could he begin to describe to her that she meant the world to him, even if a part of him belonged to another?

So he quickly moved past it, diverting her attention with a strong kiss. She surely would know that his hesitancy to discuss it was telling of a deeper, perhaps sadder story, and he was content with knowing she would leave it at that. 

Eliza responded well, taking a firm hold of his hair and kissing him, lips full and pink and curled in a smile just slightly.

_Philip Hamilton._

“I like this one,” She mumbled, breaking their kiss to pull his hand up to her mouth. When she kissed the mark, Alexander felt a shiver travel through his spine, and she smiled wickedly again. “I should wonder who this Philip Hamilton is.”

He sat up slightly, touching her face with the pads of his fingers. As she moved closer to him, hands resting against his angular shoulders, he caressed the softness of her face, the smooth roundness of her jaw. It was a comfort to not have to keep one eye on the door between kisses, to be able to focus his attention solely on her face in the candlelight and the way she sat in his lap. 

“I have yet to meet him, but I get the strange suspicion that he may be your doing, my dear Betsey.”

Her teeth nipped the skin against his ear gently, and he would be lying if he claimed he didn’t bristle with pleasure a little. “ _Our_ doing.”

“You are… surprisingly coy,” Alexander noted, raising an eyebrow. Eliza’s face was furiously flushed as his hand brushed along her thigh and found its target in a technique he knew was especially effective with the fairer sex.

As she whimpered into his shoulder, her breath drew quietly. “And you are, not surprisingly, coquettish.” Her breath huffed in a laugh, more or less, tangling her fingers in his hair. Her voice dropped slightly in an imitation of him as she sighed girlishly, whispering, “Would you like to touch?”

He drew her hands to his hips, biting his lip as his wife’s hands searched his skin. She found what he wanted her to find before he could speak of it, too far gone by her touches to form sentient thoughts.

Her breath was less of a sigh or a moan and more of a gasp. “Oh!”

_Elizabeth Schuyler._

“That’s me,” She said, beaming. Alexander nodded, kissing her neck as she looked down at her own name written on his skin. “I am among your soulmates?”

He drew her close and smiled, the softness of her mouth pressed against his. “Of course,” Alexander said quietly against her cheek. Her arms were safe, a warmth and comfort he hadn’t felt for some time.

For what was truly only the second time in many years, Alexander felt entirely comfortable admitting aloud the depth of his emotion. “I love you,” He whispered, and he meant it.

“Have me,” She whispered back, and he could tell she meant it, too.

It was only hours later, lying in the warmth of their sheets while she slept soundly, that Alexander realized fully that Eliza had no soulmate names anywhere on her body.


	7. Chapter 7

Nothing in the world could’ve prepared Alexander for what it felt like to hold his son in his arms. 

Eliza rested in the bed, dripping with perspiration, hair hanging in her face. Her labor had been long, although not as difficult as it could’ve been, and he was eternally grateful she had weathered it more or less unscathed. Despite being knowledgeable in anatomy, he still found himself confused and intimidated by the capabilities of the female body, especially during a time such as childbirth. His respect for her after all she had done to bring their child into the world had only increased tenfold.

They hadn’t allowed him to stay present for the birth, instead relieving him to the exterior of the room to pace while Eliza groaned in discomfort inside. He could barely imagine the pain that accompanied labor, and her very audible screams brought no comfort to him. Both of Eliza’s sisters came to see her through it, though Angelica slipped into the room to care for her and Peggy chose to stay with her fretting husband outside.

As soon as he was allowed to come in to meet the babe, told that the birth had gone well and that both mother and son were healthy, he burst through the door, almost shaking with anticipation. He had waited his entire life for this moment, to meet his son, to see him --

The baby rested in Eliza’s arms, and she was gasping, tears brimming her eyes. Alexander hurried forward, and then crashed all at once, sitting down so gently that Eliza barely felt his weight on the bed.

“Philip,” He whispered as she handed him their son, his tiny body wrapped in cloth and fidgeting gently. After Eliza’s father, but in a bigger sense, after the name wrapped around his wrist, the name he had looked at with adoration since three years old. He understood now why it was placed there, rather than any other spot across his body. 

He wanted to give this baby everything he held claim over in the world - and everything he didn’t. Everything he ever wanted, everything he ever needed- he wanted his son to have the entire world before his feet, to have everything Alexander’s father had taken from him. 

A joy-filled sob shook his shoulders, unable to break his glassy stare from the tiny baby in his arms. Philip blinked slowly and rested against his father, exhausted from being brought to life. 

“Philip,” Eliza agreed softly, her voice a little broken with exhaustion and relief. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and he turned so she could see where their son was falling asleep. 

Alexander had never been quite so shaken to the bone. He had been brought to his knees, head spinning, from the most tender and beautiful of loving kisses before - he had seen the quiet glory of the American flag gently billowing under a clear sky, its devoted general standing a mountain beneath it in reverence - he had watched a world disintegrate into color and slow to a stop and heard the stillness of the breath after the scream back in Nevis - none could convince him of the existence of a God quite like the child he held did.

Instead of forcing Eliza to move and pain herself further, he moved backwards onto the bed next to her, lips brushing her soft cheek in its weathered glow. Together, they doted on the tender beauty resting in Alexander’s arms. Alexander was so shaken that his mind slowed down, his lips were stilled, he could… he could breathe. 

Eliza’s fingers brushed against his arm, sometimes touching the softness of Philip’s small hand, her face caught in a joyful smile. The emotional swell of childbearing occasionally overcame her and she would press her forehead into Alexander’s shoulder, losing herself in tears, just to compose herself and breathe slowly. 

Slow. Slow. Slow. Everything felt slow, and it was… calming, to say the least. Alexander thought of nothing but the baby in his arms, his dear girl at his side, and the thick January snow outside their bedroom window.

(The next morning, as they dressed Philip, there were two more revelations to be found - a tiny _Angelica Hamilton_ at the small of his back, and a slightly larger _Theodosia Burr_ in exactly the same place as the _John Laurens_ written on Alexander.)


	8. Chapter 8

Alexander woke in the fine heat of August in 1782, covered in his own blood and with a splitting headache.

Eliza was unable to figure out why she woke to Alexander, his face contorted in silent pain, eyes unfocused, bleeding. She scrambled to his side, hair in tangled curls across her shoulders and back, concerned as she reached out to touch him.

Alexander was unable to move, clearly conscious, but in some state of shock. He stayed like that as she spoke to him in hushed rambles, peeling his night shirt off, looking for the source of his injury. She was shocked to see the soulmate name penned between over his heart and his shoulder, curly handwriting she’d seen on his desk a good number of times, turned to thin, painful incisions in his skin. The red stained her hands and his shirt and their bedsheets.

He finally stirred, and the distraught look on his face grew more upset. Eliza had heard of this happening before - marks turning to scars, the excruciating experience accompanying it. Alexander looked at her, trying to breathe, and he gingerly felt the shoulder colored with his blood. Both of them knew what it meant, as there was only one cause for the phenomenon, and Alexander crumpled.

Eliza gathered him in her arms and held him as he wept. She couldn’t begin to understand the pain that plagued him, the headache that felt like his scalp was being split open, the sharp jabs in his skin, not to mention the knowledge that somewhere…

He didn’t get out of bed that day, or the next. Eliza told people who came to the door that he was ill. Eliza brought a bowl of warm water and cleaned the cuts for him, wrapped his shoulder. Eliza said nothing when Alexander was silent, his fingers twitching in his lap, said nothing when he moved to sit at his desk and found it impossible to write. She simply sat by him, held his hands, let him have his silence when he implied to desire it, wondered if having a soulmate was truly worth the pain she saw every time she mentioned his name in a hope to bring some sort of healing to pass.

When the letter came to the door for a _Mr. A Hamilton_ , Eliza paused in the door of the study, holding parchment between her fingers. 

“It’s about Colonel Laurens,” She said quietly, watching the predictable way he rubbed his shoulder, the way his face clouded. “Would you like me to read it?”

“Thank you, Betsey,” He responded quietly, kissing her on the cheek, lips soft and chapped. Alexander looked at her once as he drew the letter from her hands, paper slipping between her fingers, offered some kind of morose smile. 

He didn’t even glance at the letter before he dropped it in the fire, shadows highlighted on his nose. Eliza winced, watching from the doorway the way that _John Laurens_ was consumed by the fire, Alexander seated at his desk again. She wondered to herself if he wished the thin scars on his chest curl away and disappear into ash too.


	9. Chapter 9

Alexander, as a child, had been fascinated with the idea of soulmates. The concept of having another being who complimented your soul in such a way that was entirely unique to that individual had enthralled him, especially since he’d grown up with three names decorating his skin.

He’d been convinced he was some sort of… _prodigy_ , something special.

He understood, quite plainly now, that was not the case. The whole concept was increasingly becoming more akin to the fickle whims of a higher power that cared not at all for helping people find their other halves. Rather, the whims seemed to be directed to make everyone’s lives as complicated as possible.

Alexander wished he could divorce the whole system entirely.

By some cruel twist of this brand of fate, that name upon his back continued to haunt him, and it infuriated Alexander.

Sometimes, he voiced this anger to Eliza. His rants would pour from him like waterfalls, spilling his wrath and utter bemusement across the floor as he paced. Eliza would sit on the bed, clutching one of their children in her lap. James Alexander had just been born, and was quite a restless child - he required much more vigilance than Alexander Jr., Angelica, and Philip had.

Eliza never had much to say on the topic, not like she usually did. Most of the time, she supplied a second voice that at least gave Alexander points to make his arguments leap from, no matter how much the topic bored her. He could tell she was similarly fascinated by the idea of soulmates, but her years nameless had diminished the promising glimmer of the concept to more of a dull sheen.

“I cannot understand why fate has chosen to place this man’s name upon my skin. The others make perfect sense - what has Burr done to deserve my soul, besides attempt to thwart me at every turn?”

“He has ambitions beyond you, keep your head from the clouds,” Eliza reminded him, chiding gently. “From what I have seen, soul marks seem not to care whether you understand them or not.”

“Well, they should be made to be understood!” Alexander threw his hands up in the air, sighing heavily. “If that is not in their nature, than someone should… make it that way.” Frustrated, he dragged his hands down his face. It was not often that something perplexed him to the point he couldn’t conjure a solution. The soul marks were so vague, so uncertain in their origin, that there was no way to solve them.

Eliza watched as he made some lame excuse, and walked from the room. The manor felt quiet to him, although he could hear his children playing somewhere unknown to him. 

He paced the halls, wondering. There were other things to attend to, things that required more attention, that were more important than his bemused anger at something he had little control over.

But some force had painlessly branded his skin with the name Aaron Burr, and its placement was curious. Soul marks never did anything without purpose, especially when they deviated from the normal.

He felt frenzied, tearing into his bedroom, ripping his shirt off. The large mirror he often fixed his hair in showed him just how furious his face had been twisted. Alexander’s eyes glazed over the darkened scar across his shoulder, but he ignored it, as was habit. Instead, he whirled around, and looked at that damned name scrawled across his skin. It was almost comically messy, and he hated it.

Somewhere, perhaps Burr was regarding his own wrist with the same contempt. 

Freckles spilling across his shoulders distracted Alexander, and it infuriated him that those freckles and the name in its curious placement on his lower back were of a similar ilk. There was no explanation to be found. Perhaps it made more sense that they were soulmates than if they were not connected at all - every time Alexander seemed to think himself free of the infuriating man, suddenly there Burr was, creating some new trauma for him.

Only recently, as Burr’s candidacy and succession of Alexander’s father-in-law for a senate position had come to light, had fury rekindled in him.

Burr’s morality was not nonexistent - Alexander was sure he believed in something, somewhere. Surely some part of him felt fiercely towards… something. No matter how shielded he kept himself from the public eye, some part of Burr must feel a sense of dedication, of priority.

Yet his political processions, down to the simplest iterations, were infuriatingly moderate. How could one man be so concerned with self preservation that he refused to show any sort of belief unless it would profit him?

Hamilton had many enemies, but at least he had made them with surety. His enemies despised him for his insubordination, and his allies loved him for sincerity. Burr was as fluctuous as Alexander was fixed, charming who he needed when he needed them, disregarding those he had no use for.

And for what?

Alexander had no idea, and his fingertips burned with rage. For some reason, this man of no ilks and Alexander, a man tied so firmly to his beliefs that they alone composed his backbone, were tied together by a bond of fate beyond comprehension.

Pulling his shirt back on, he fixed his cravat, straightened his waistcoat. He allowed the anger of his confusion to wash over him, then pass like a dark spirit, leaving him cold and more or less collected.

“Fine,” He muttered noncommittally, to no one in particular. “If the stars will curse me so, then that is their business. It does not bother me.”

It bothered him a lot.


End file.
